


In the Winds of Dawn

by Septembers_coda



Category: Supernatural, The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Angel Family, Apocalypse, Between worlds, Burdens of leadership, Comfort Sex, Comfort/Angst, Falling In Love, M/M, Melancholy, Respite, Responsibility
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-21
Updated: 2014-12-21
Packaged: 2018-03-02 17:48:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,022
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2820887
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Septembers_coda/pseuds/Septembers_coda
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Alone on watch, Faramir is full of dark doubt. An angel comes, bringing doubts of his own, and something much more.</p>
            </blockquote>





	In the Winds of Dawn

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Fionhen](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fionhen/gifts).



Faramir stood guard in the wee hours, letting others, those who could still find rest, sleep while they may. Morning had come to the barren ridge, perhaps the last dawn they would see as the darkness spread. He cherished the dim glow as he gazed into the East. 

His death waited there, he knew. And not his alone. Death was the richest commodity in trade in these times; he had learned to deal it, and soon he would be gifted with his own. The darkness in the East was generous with mortality.

The halflings of his vision had left him to seek their own deaths, but they had stirred to life from the embers a low, steady flame of hope that burned away Faramir’s darkest thoughts. He would return to Minas Tirith, and perhaps he could help his father. It was not too late.

Suddenly, Faramir’s grief for Boromir rose up in him like a charging brigade of foul enemies, and he with no sword in his hand. If Boromir but lived, the flame of hope the hobbits had stirred to life could burn on. Boromir, floating down to his rest upon the breast of Anduin instead of riding to war.

How Faramir wished their places were reversed! He had been so tired, though his body was hale. Tired of war and of striving, wishing only to _learn_ aught, but the lessons of war were brief and simple, soon learned at great cost and yielding no wisdom.

This melancholy: he knew his father suffered from it as he did, and as Boromir—brave, bold, the greatest hope of Gondor in war—had not. Boromir would never let Osgiliath be taken. He would lead Gondor to victory. But Faramir—

“You had victory over great evil,” said a voice.

Faramir leaped in a circle and swept out his sword. Was he so steeped in melancholy that all his warrior’s instincts were drowned in it? For an enemy to catch him unawares while on guard—

“I am not your enemy.”

There stood a man in strange raiment. It was true; he did not look like an enemy, but Faramir raised his sword between them nonetheless. 

“Who are you?” he demanded sharply. “How did you climb the ridge without raising the alarm?”

The man did not answer, but stepped forward, and the light breaking over the ridge fell on his face.

Faramir stared. Here, surely, was a man of the ancient Numenorean race! He stood tall, straight and proud, and even as the sons of Denethor themselves, his hair was dark and his visage noble as the race of kings. But his eyes, instead of the grey of Gondor’s race, were a blue like unto the sky at midsummer through the branches of the fair trees of Ithilien, like the elves’ memory of the sea. Out of them shone a light of power such as Faramir had never imagined. In Gandalf, Faramir had felt an ancient power and wisdom, wrapped in his guise of a wandering old man. But this man—if man he was—wore his power openly, a power, Faramir felt, that could burn him to cinders with a thought.

He lowered his sword. If this figure was what he believed, weapons would not avail him. Nor could he imagine ever setting steel to _him._ “Have you come for me?” he said softly, and was pleased that his voice remained steady.

“Yes,” said the man.

* * *

In later years, when he was able to believe that the events of that dawn were not simply a dream, Faramir often wondered at the certainty he had felt then. He had been sure that when Castiel—for that was the figure’s name, and indeed he was not a man, but of a race he called _angels_ —touched his forehead, he was taking Faramir to his final rest. His only hope was that his death would be deemed honorable, that this strange vision had come to take him away from the ugliness of his last battle, which he hoped he would never remember. He needed no more memories of blood and slaughter.

It was some time before he could form any understanding of what was happening, and his comprehension never grew very great. It seemed that Castiel had come to him for _counsel,_ that he had need of wisdom to fight the end of his own world far away, and had wisdom to offer Faramir in return.

Once he came to understand that he was not dead, Faramir asked, “Where are we?” He looked around the strange little room to which the angel had brought him in wonder. It was a pleasant room of warm, honey-toned wood, well-appointed though it seemed oddly unreal. There was a hearth with a bright fire in it, and windows that looked out into a strange, formless grayness that was not fog. Even more oddly, there was no door. There were chairs before the fire and a wide bed in the corner. That was all.

“We are not in Middle-Earth,” Castiel answered. “We are not in the world my father made, either. This is… an in-between place. Valinor, of the elves of your world, is a similar place. It is formed of… the thoughts and dreams of higher beings, I guess you might say. This is my part of it. I come here when I need to think.”

“And you wish to take counsel with me?”

“Yes. I felt… your thoughts, your fears about the apocalypse your world is facing, and it drew me to you. You see, an apocalypse is looming in my own world, too, and I have to decide what to do about it.”

Faramir nodded thoughtfully. He sat down in a chair before the fire, and Castiel took the other seat, watching him. “Why is it my counsel you seek?” he said. “You said I had victory over great evil, but I do not know of what you speak. I have achieved no great victory, and my brother, who might have done so, is dead.”

“You won out over temptation. The Ring had no power over you. And you will do your duty, no matter what your father asks of you, even if you know better. That’s why I came to you. My father… has been absent for some time now, and I no longer understand what I should do.”

“What was your father’s command?”

“It has been so long since he gave any commands that few now remember them. But I remember his intent. He loved the world, and he loved humanity, and he commanded us to shepherd and protect these things. But now my brothers don’t seem to care what stands between them and total domination. They’ll bring about the end of the world—and they’ll use people I love to do it.”

Faramir nodded again. “My father is much like your brothers. And I fear it may be too late to save him, and our people. Yes, Castiel. I understand your plight.”

Castiel sat forward suddenly and took Faramir’s hand. Faramir felt a great shock, a surge of feeling that he did not understand, but the warmth of Castiel’s hand over his felt like a lifeline, a rope tossed to him as he struggled in violent waters. He clasped it tight.

They spoke long of matters that seemed at once beyond Faramir’s comprehension and utterly familiar to him. As Castiel described these Winchesters, whom he loved and had never intended to love, and his brothers, whom he loved though he had come to understand that they were traitors, Faramir felt a great bond of understanding and empathy overtaking him. He had scant counsel to offer, but what little he ventured seemed to hearten the angel, and Castiel gave Faramir words of comfort and encouragement in return.

Beyond comfort and encouragement, Faramir found… something else. He did not think it odd that their hands remained clasped as they spoke, or that Castiel’s caressed his from time to time. Nor was it strange when Castiel sat forward in his chair, sliding it around to face his, and moved closer to him, so that their knees brushed. 

What Faramir _did_ find strange was the racing of his heart, the heating of his blood that slowly overtook him as Castiel moved closer: strange, but welcome. He did not discourage it. He did not move away when Castiel, after a silence had fallen between them, leaned forward and brushed a hand over his brow and his cheek, letting it rest on his neck.

He was drawn, and powerfully. So when Castiel locked eyes with him and leaned hesitantly closer, Faramir moved to meet him. He put his arms around the angel’s neck, their lips met, and the spark that had been struck between them grew to a hot and heady blaze within him.

He knew that Castiel felt it too. They kissed deep and long, and when Castiel drew Faramir to his feet and into his arms, for once in his carefully reasoned, overcautious life, Faramir did not think. He simply acted, divesting the angel of his strange, pale coat, guiding Castiel’s hands to remove his mail shirt and sword belt, following him to the bed in the corner.

They lay naked together in the soft, smooth bed, mouths and hands exploring tenderly, bodies sliding together with a sweetness Faramir had never imagined. Darkness was forgotten as he bathed in the light that poured from Castiel into him, melancholy left far behind in the peace they built, for these few stolen moments, together.

Afterward, they lay in a tender embrace, limbs entwined, Castiel’s head resting upon Faramir’s chest. Gratitude for this respite swelled in Faramir, even as did a great, lonely regret that it must end.

Castiel seemed to feel this. He sat up and kissed Faramir softly, stroking the hair back from his brow. “All will be well,” the angel whispered. “You have already won the great victory your brother could not. You will save Gondor.”

“Will you not…” Faramir hesitated. He knew it was impossible, but he could not stop himself from speaking anyway. “Will you not come with me to save it? I… I would not part from you so soon.”

Castiel smiled tenderly. “I don’t want to part with you, either. But I have my own people to save. We are both men of duty. Though I was glad to be able to cast it off, for a little while.”

“Dean will return your love,” Faramir said suddenly. 

Castiel froze. Faramir hardly knew why he spoke, but when Castiel had spoken of the elder Winchester, Faramir had sensed something of which he was now certain. He wished to offer what he could to Castiel, who had given him so much that healed him.

“You love him, and he returns your regard. I am certain of it,” he continued. “If you succeed— _when_ you do—you must tell him of your feelings. I hope you will find happiness, Castiel.”

“Thank you,” Castiel murmured. “You are an extraordinary man, Faramir.”

“Though you are the only one I have ever me, I suspect you are an extraordinary angel.” 

Castiel brought him back to the ridge where he had been standing guard at dawn. It seemed no time had passed. They stood clasping hands for a moment. Faramir could find no words to say.

“I will return one day, if I can,” said Castiel finally. “I would like to see you happy and well.”

“And I you,” Faramir answered, and closed his eyes as the angel kissed him one last time.

When he opened them, he was alone in the winds of dawn.

* * *

It is told in Gondor that, in the later years of his life, after his wife had died and his son succeeded him as steward of Gondor, Faramir, Prince of Ithilien, rode out one day into the fair, quiet forests of the new, peaceful realm. There he met a mysterious figure who shone with white light, and the figure took his hand, and they walked into the West together and were never seen again in Middle Earth.

The End

**Author's Note:**

> ETA: I know this fic has a limited audience, but I'm sort of dying to talk about it, so if you read and enjoyed, please comment. :-)
> 
> Written for thunder_nari for the wonderful multifan-gift challenge! I sincerely hope you enjoy it, and I must thank you for the prompts, and making me write something that would otherwise never have occurred to me. This ship really, weirdly works. As soon as I saw that pairing I knew I had to write it. I am a huge, lifelong LOTR fan—of the books of course, and I am sure you’ll recognize this Faramir as the character Tolkien wrote and not the egregious desecration of him from the films—and Faramir is my favorite second-tier character. I was working on a crush on him from the time I was about 12; he was always more my speed than the guys who were all about battle and kingship. But I never tried to write LOTR fic before. I enjoyed trying to imitate some of Tolkien’s style and cadences. All that’s missing is a poem. Ah well, next time. There ought to be one for the long, epic love story of Castiel and Faramir.


End file.
